The games that play us
by TurnTheDirtIntoJoy
Summary: When Stiles is reaped for the 74th annual Hunger Games, he soon realises he's nothing more than a cog in a much bigger scheme and it seems everybody knows more than he does. Torn between the love of his life and the girl of his dreams, Stiles discovers that the hardest fight won't be won on the battlefield. Thank you to my beta, Jessie!


I heard the leaves shift and the sound of twigs breaking behind me. Sitting with my back against the trunk of a ponderosa pine, I let out a deep breath and crossed my arms over my chest to try and warm myself up. I didn't bother looking behind me; I knew who was coming. I could recognise those footsteps in a heartbeat.

"I figured I'd find you here," a voice came from behind me.

Of course she would. It was our spot. I didn't respond; I just listened as the footsteps grew closer.

"Scoot over," Malia said, before sitting down next to me.

I didn't look at her. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on a distant point in the horizon while I anxiously snatched a handful of weeds at my feet. I could feel her shuddering and fought the urge to wrap my arms around her.

"Remember when we did this?" she said, breaking the silence that had settled and pointing upwards to a specific spot on the tree.

I lift my eyes, although I knew exactly what she was talking about. It was a heart with our names in it carved out in the pine.

"Of course I do," I answered.

We had been ten. We had snuck into the woods as we always did. Standing before the tree, Malia had taken a knife out of her boot; she was always stealing her father's knives. "Let's write something," she'd said, "So people know it's ours."

I'd snatched the knife from her hands and carved our names into the bark with care. "There," I'd said proudly, "It's officially our spot". I remember she'd looked sceptical.

"Something's missing" she'd stated before she'd taken the knife from me. "Close your eyes," she'd told me. Eyes closed, I'd heard her scrubbing the bark frantically with the butcher's knife. "There," she'd said after a while, "much better." I'd opened my eyes and seen the heart, and I remember vividly how I'd felt my blood run to my cheeks.

"We can't stay children forever," I told her as my eyes darted about, taking in the familiar surroundings around me.

"I wish we could," she muttered, all lightness gone from her voice.

Her cold hand grabbed my own and my eyes locked on our intertwined hands, taking in the familiarity of her soft fingers against mine.

"Malia," I started, looking up at her, "You shouldn't..."

"Don't," she cut me off sternly, eyes pleading, "Not today."

I opened my mouth to retort, but then closed it. She was right. The Reaping started in a few hours and now was not the time to argue. Not when this might be the last time I ever get to hold her hand. Without a word, she rested her head on my shoulder and I felt my heart clench in my chest. I so desperately wanted to kiss her, to stop time and hold her in my arms, like I did in the old days. Instead, I let out a heavy sigh and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"How many times is your name in the reaping ball?" Malia asked after a while, doing a poor job at hiding the concern in her voice.

"Don't worry about it," I tried to reassure her.

"Stiles…" she insisted as she raised her head to look me in the eye.

I held her stare for a moment, but looked away eventually, exhaling slowly. I could never win with her.

"48 times," I finally confessed.

"God, Stiles," she blurted out, letting go of my hand. She bit her lower lip and I could see the guilt on her face.

Although District 10 was one of the poorest districts in Panem and having food on the table was an everyday struggle, she knew most of these extra entries had nothing to do with additional tesserae, and everything with misbehaviour. Sure, I may have punched a Peacekeeper who'd been a little too handsy with her. And, yes, I might have occasionally stolen food for her and gotten caught. But she wasn't to blame. I'd known the consequences then, and I knew them know.

"I'll be fine," I tried to soothe her before adding in a whisper "I'm always fine."

She shook her head and looked away. We'd been through five reapings together and we'd been lucky so far. Five horrible days spent with an overwhelming sense of dread, spurred by the knowledge that we'd lose two of our own and fuelled by the uncertainty of whether or not it was going to be one of us two.

"This is sick," she spat out, after a moment. "Can you imagine it? Two million people watching kids die. Cheering. Betting. And none of us is doing anything."

"What can we do?" I asked. "Malia, we're nothing."

For years, Malia had tried to get people to boycott the Reaping. In vain. People were not as bold as her. _We_ were not as bold as her. We were breeders, ranchers, milkers and butchers, and we knew one simple, undeniable fact: we were all expendable. A knowledge that made us extremely submissive to the Capitol.

"No, together we're not," she retorted. "Together we matter. We need to stand up and fight for ourselves. We can't keep playing their games and act like the cattle that we breed. We can't keep sending our children to the battlefield to die, thinking to ourselves that it might be for the best because at least they won't starve to death. We need hope."

"Even if the whole district rises up, it won't matter to them," I said, brows furrowed, wishing she would just accept it before she got herself killed. Just like her mother. "You know what happened to District 13. They could kill us."

"They _are_ killing us, Stiles," she corrected me, rage gleaming in her eyes. "And I'm not afraid of them."

"Dad?" I shouted as I pushed the wooden door open and stepped into the house. I was welcomed by the lingering smell of cold tobacco and the stench of cheap whiskey spilled all over the floor.

I scanned the small living room and found my dad asleep on the old couch, the empty glass still in his hand. I walked up to him, took the glass from him, and put it on the table.

"Dammit dad," I whispered, mostly to myself, as if I hadn't seen him like this countless times over the last six years. It was his way of coping with my mother's death, I guess; perhaps he thought that if he drank enough alcohol, it would drown his sorrow and make it all go away. Without bothering to be quiet, I grabbed a bucket and a few rags in the kitchen and headed for the water mains inlet.

As I carefully rubbed my arms with a damp cloth, my eyes fell once again on the outfit my dad had laid out for me. It consisted of light-brown trousers, and a white short-sleeve shirt. It wasn't all that fancy, but it was still the fanciest clothes we owned. I felt a pang in my heart and my eyes flew to the photograph on my bedside table: a twenty four year-old version of my dad was wearing the exact same outfit. He had an arm wrapped around my mother's waist. It was their wedding picture. I felt my eyes beginning to sting. I swallowed back the tears and dropped the rag into the water once more.

I had always wondered why the Capitol made us dress up. Maybe they though the dressing up part would make the whole thing less horrid.

It didn't.

When I arrived at the town square, it was crowded. People from all ages were gathered like a herd, waiting, praying, and crying together. I watched as a mother gave her son a hug, tears rolling down her face. He looked young, probably twelve years old, and his body shook uncontrollably. He would not let go of his mother even as she reluctantly pulled him towards the line to get his finger pricked for identification. "You're going to be okay," she told him, unconvincingly, as she squatted down to his height, "It'll be over soon."

She looked up from her son and saw me staring. I tried to look away but somehow my eyes were glued to her. _What if her son's reaped today?_, I thought, _What's a mother without her child? _

"How many have you been through?" she asked me. The look on her face was apologetic, although she'd done nothing wrong.

"Five," I answered. "It's my last one."

She nodded. I watched as she kissed her son on the cheek and whispered "I love you," in his ear. She wiped away her own tears as she stood and took a step back from her son.

"May the odds be in your favour," she said to no one in particular.

Then she was gone. Her son did not stop crying.

Looking at the people around me, a strange feeling overwhelmed me. For the first time in my life, I didn't just feel that I was surrounded by strangers, but that I was a stranger myself, as if, somehow, something kept me from filling the gap between who I was and who all these people, making their way through the very same day, were. I felt sick. I could feel the air leaving my lungs and my heart beating frantically in my chest. I felt like drowning.

I was on the verge of passing out when a hand grabbed my shoulder.

"Dude, are you okay?" Scott's voice brought me back to the surface.

"Do you ever get up in the morning and just know it's going to be one of those days?" I asked, turning to look at him when my breathing finally slowed.

"It's life, man," he sighed as we joined one of the lines. "We all get through it."

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

The sound of stiletto heels resonated through the town square as the whole district held its breath. Kate Argent, district 10's escort, made her way to the microphone. Her bleached-out hair was up into a bushy, beehive hairdo and she was dressed all in pink. Pink pleated skirt. Pink jacket with puffed sleeves. Topped off with a large pink flower made of silk to complete her hairdo. She walked with her chin held high and a large smile on her face, as if she wasn't about to send two kids to their deaths.

After a quick microphone check, Kate cleared her throat

"Welcome! Welcome!" she exclaimed with her usual cheer, into the silence of the square "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

I heard Scott snort next to me, before muttering under his breath: "Have the odds ever been in our favour?"

"Now, before we begin," Kate went on, as soon as she realised she would not get any applause, "We have a very special film brought to you all the way from the Capitol!"

I couldn't help but suppress a laugh. _A very special film_, right. It's the same every year. I scanned the crowd and spotted Malia with ease. She was looking at me with a smile and I could see her lips moving. I didn't need to concentrate to get what she was trying to say. "War, terrible war," she mouthed.

And then the familiar voice of President Gerard Argent echoed throughout the square as a series of propaganda images were broadcasted on the large screen:

"_**War, terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child. This was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained. And then came the peace, hard fought, sorely won. A people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost. When the traitors were defeated, we swore as a nation we would never know this treason again. And so it was decreed, that each year, the various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute, one young man and woman, to fight to the death in a pageant of honour, courage and sacrifice. The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future.**_**"**

Kate Argent had closed her eyes and, hands crossed over her chest, she recited the video like a lesson learned by heart. Some people held hands, the younger kids were shaking, while some could hardly suppress their tears as the dreaded moment approached. Scott and I exchanged a look, and he nodded slightly. _It's gonna be okay_, it meant, _we're going to be fine_.

"Now," Kate announced, "the time has come to select one courageous young man and woman for the honour of representing district 10 in the 74th annual Hunger Games."

I cast a last glance at Malia. She wasn't smiling anymore but I could tell she wasn't scared for herself. Her little sister was in the crowd, in the row of twelve year-olds, and she kept looking back at her sister for reassurance. I could see Malia's hand, still at her side, ready to shoot into the air if her sister was reaped. I'd known Phoebe her whole life, and if I could do it myself, I would volunteer for her without a second thought.

"As usual, ladies first," Kate said into the microphone before heading for the large bowl containing all the girls' names on her left.

To spur the tension, she purposely let her hand linger over the ball, as if trying to decide which name to pick, as if there _was_ a right pick. Her bright, freshly manicured fingernails brushed the papers a few times until she finally dived her hand into the bowl. Carefully, she picked one of the folded pieces of paper and opened it, smoothing it slightly with a brush of her fingertip. The crowd was completely silent. The entire square stood still. Seconds felt like hours, and despite the cool air, I could feel myself burning up.

Eyes still on Malia, I saw her let out a breath she probably didn't even know she was holding when Kate Argent finally announced: "Cora Hale."

And then came the worst part. The relief. The sudden rush of joy at the realisation that your loved ones were safe. And then the guilt for allowing yourself to feel that way when someone else was sacrificed in their place. How could I be relieved when a poor girl had just been sent to her death, when parents somewhere in this crowd had just learned that they might never see their daughter again? _The Games made monsters of us all_.

"Where are you?" Kate asked as she scanned the audience. "Come on up dear, don't be shy!'

I heard whispers and then the crowd parted slowly. A dark-haired girl moved forward, seemingly unaware of the stares of the district. Chin up, she walked towards the central path where four peacekeepers led her to the stage.

When she got on stage, I finally got a better look at her. Though she was my age, I couldn't say I knew her very well. Her name was familiar though, and everyone in District 10 knew her story. Her brother, Derek, had won the Games when he was fifteen and, consequently, the entire Hale family lived in the Victors' village. When she was eleven, the Hale house burned in a fire, killing the entire family apart from her, Derek who was in the Capitol, and their uncle Peter. Although the fire was officially declared an accident, a rumour had spread throughout the district, claiming that the family had been killed by order of the Capitol. Apparently, Derek had grown a little too loud for Argent's liking and he needed to be taught a lesson. No one had heard of him or any Hale ever since, so it must have worked.

"Talk about odds not being in your favour," Scott said numbly.

"Yeah," was all I could say.

Kate waited expectantly by the microphone, but no one clapped.

"Now," she finally said, seemingly unphased "for the boys!"

As I watched the district's escort walk towards the glass bowl on her right, the sound of her stilettos still the only sound echoing through the square, I swore I could feel Malia's eyes on me. I couldn't look at her, though. I couldn't take my eyes off Kate as she picked out a name, as she walked back to the microphone, and she unfolded the small piece of paper. In spite of myself, I could feel my hands shaking even as I clenched them into fists at my sides as I waited.

Then she spoke.

"Stiles Stilinski!"

Buzzing filled my ears. My vision blurred and I closed my eyes. I tried to inhale but the air got stuck in my throat. My lungs were burning up. I felt dizzy. _Breathe_, I thought, _just breathe_. There were whispers. I couldn't tell where it came from and the words were unfathomable. Someone grabbed my shoulder. The floor seemed unsteady.

"Stiles," a voice called. It seemed distant. "Stiles, can you hear me?"

When I opened my eyes again, Scott was standing right in front of me, his hands on my shoulders. His lips were moving but I couldn't understand. His voice seemed a million miles away. It was like the world moved in slow motion but it was still too fast for me. Someone pushed me towards the empty middle space and I struggled to put one foot in front of the other, the ground shifting beneath my feet.

Slowly regaining control of my body, I turned my head towards the rows of girls where I saw Malia trying to make her way towards me, screaming. Urging my body to respond, I grabbed Scott by the arm and pulled him towards me until my lips reached his ear.

"Go get her," I whispered. "Go get Malia."

He nodded knowingly and ran in her direction. The world moved at the right pace now and my head didn't spin so fast anymore. Raising my head to try and show some sort of dignity, I finally managed to give orders to my body. As I made my way towards the stage, surrounded by the peacekeepers, I heard a gut-wrenching scream coming from behind me and I fought the urge to turn around.

"_Stiles!_"

_Keep walking, Stiles._

"No, let me go! _Stiles!_"

Kate was waiting for me at the top of the steps, holding out her hand to welcome me on stage. I could still hear Malia's shouts as the escort put her arm around my shoulders and led me towards the microphone. When I looked up, there she was. Scott's arms were holding her firmly in place despite her efforts to get herself free. Her face was flushed from all the screaming and her eyes were shining with unshed tears. All eyes were on her, the cameras as well. Scott whispered something in her ear and she finally yielded, her body going limp, and she allowed herself to lean against him. I looked away.

"Here we are," Kate said with a bright smile, a hand on my back while the other rested on Cora's, as if Malia had never uttered a word. "Our tributes from district 10!"

My eyes fell on Cora who stood stiffly on the stage, jaw tightened and fists clenched.

"Well, come on you two, shake hands!" Kate urged us, her smile wide.

As I extended my hand, our eyes met for the first time. I saw something flicker across her face and I found myself wondering which one of us would outlive the other.

_The Games made monsters of us all_.

When the Reaping ended, a couple of peacekeepers escorted me through the halls of the justice building. There's no time to admire the refined furniture, or the delicate wood adorning the different rooms. Left, then right, and then left again. As we entered a room, the peacekeepers instructed me on what was going to happen now.

I was allowed to receive visitors for the next five minutes and then Cora and I would step onboard a train headed to the Capitol. When the door closed behind the peacekeepers, I finally allowed myself to release a heavy sigh. The next few seconds felt like hours as I paced nervously, the knuckles of my right hand pressed against my mouth.

I heard the door open behind me and before I could even say a word I was in my father's arms.

"Stiles," he whispered, tightening his hold on me. "My son…"

It had been a long time since my dad and I had hugged. Hell, it'd been a long time since we had talked. Since my mother's death, things had been difficult between us. I resented him for trying to drown his sorrow in liquor, for stealing away my childhood by forcing me to stop going to school and do all the work that he couldn't anymore. As for him, he couldn't forgive me for loving a Tate. As the years went on, we kept on drifting further away, and I guess we were both too weary to even try to talk it through. Funny how the perspective of my eminent death made everything simpler.

"Dad," I said, pulling away a bit. "If anything happens to me…"

"Why are you saying these things?" my dad interrupted with a dismissive shake of his head.

"Because I want you to be ready," I said sternly. "If I die, I won't be there to take care of the farm, I won't be there to take care of you, and you'll need to make sure there's food on the table."

Grabbing his shoulders with my hands, I looked him in the eyes, and I saw tears there. "You need to start living again, dad."

He nodded slowly.

"No matter what happens," I did my best to keep my voice steady, recalling Scott's words, "You have to get through it."

Another nod.

I pulled him into another hug and buried my face in his shoulder. His strong arms were around me, and for a second, I felt like I was eight years old again, and everything was fine.

"It's gonna be okay, Dad," I told him reassuringly as peacekeepers entered the room to drag him out. "I'll be alright."

"Time's up," I heard one of them say as they seized my father.

"I love you Dad," I managed to get out. He was halfway out the door when I heard him answer: "I love you too, son."

We hadn't said those words to each other in six years.

I listened as I heard the footsteps draw away until I was back in the silence. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears and feel the tears threatening to fall. _Get it together, Stiles_. My eyes flew to the door when I heard footsteps approaching in the hallway and saw a hand gripping the door handle.

_Malia._

I closed the distance between us and our lips collided in full force. Eyes closed, a hand pressed on the small of her back, another buried in her hair, I pulled her closer to me, devouring her. I could feel her hands on me, threading through my hair, resting on my chest, above my heart. _How I've missed those lips,_ I thought. Slowly, we pulled away, her mouth lingering as it tugged at my lower lip in a way that made our noses brush. Not yet ready to let her go, I held her tighter against my chest and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

We stayed still for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms, our foreheads touching, enjoying the familiarity of the moment. I could feel her shaky breath on my mouth and her nails digging in my shoulders, holding on to me. She pulled away after a moment, and I opened my eyes. Her hands flew to her face to wipe away the tears that had spilled down her cheeks, unnoticed. She sniffed.

"Scott let me come alone," Malia said, voice shaky, before she pulled away and began pacing back and forth in front of me.

That didn't surprise me. We'd talked about it. Scott was my best friend. Practically my brother. But we didn't need this extra minute. Everything that mattered had already been said. But he knew there were things I needed to say to Malia, things that I wanted her to hear if anything happened to me, things I hadn't had the chance to tell her since we broke up.

"He said to tell you…" she said, brows furrowed, as if trying to remember his exact words, "He asked me to tell you that he loves you, and that you are his brother, no matter what. He says he's betting on you. He also said to tell you not to worry about your dad, or the farm. He said that he would take care of everything and make sure things were alright. And he said not to…"

Her voice broke over the last words as she stopped pacing. She kept her head low to hide the tears in her eyes, but I could hear her sniffing.

"Malia?" I asked, taking a tentative step towards her.

"He said not to worry about me," she finally blurted out, revealing her tear-filled eyes as she lifted her chin to look at me, "that he would take care of me for you."

My hands moved to stroke her cheeks, gently wiping away the tears that slid down her cheeks with the pads of my thumbs.

"Malia…" I whispered, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, unable to go on.

I wanted to say more. There was so much I wanted to tell her. But words escaped me now, like sand falling through the spaces in between my fingers. I searched for something to hang on to, some sign of the girl and boy who grew up together and became inseparable. I couldn't help but wonder what could have happened to them if the boy hadn't been reaped today.

She places her right hand flat on my chest. Right over my heart.

"You're coming back, right?" she asked, her eyes searching my face for reassurance.

"Of course I am," I said with a tight, pained smile. "I'll be fine."

My thumb brushed the outline of her trembling lips and her hand closed over my chest, gripping my shirt.

"I won't try to play the hero or anything," I added with chuckle. Like I could erase the panic deep inside with a dash of humour.

Her eyes were on her fisted hand, but I saw the corner of her lips turn up into a half-smile.

"Of course you will," she echoed in a whisper, looking like she was trying her hardest not to cry.

For a while, none of us spoke and we simply revelled in each other's proximity. Knowing the clock was ticking, I took her face in my hands and claimed her mouth with mine.

"Stiles, I…" Malia began to say after we pulled apart.

"I know," I didn't let her finish. "Me too."

She smiled at me, despite the tears in her eyes, and my heart swelled in my chest at the sight. I didn't want to let go of her, but soon, the peacekeepers were here to take her away. I laid a kiss on her forehead before she moved away from me.

"I'll see you soon, then," she said, never breaking eye contact, as the peacekeepers drew her towards the door.

And then I lied to her, with that same tight smile from before: "I'll see you soon."

And then the door closed, leaving me alone to dwell on everything I had to leave behind.

I was leaving behind everything.


End file.
